Reflecting Absence
by YourDarkMistress
Summary: Ten years ago, two passenger jets were flown into the Twin Towers, one was flown into the Pentagon, and one was almost reclaimed by the passengers and crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. America reflects.   We will never forget. *Updated for the 9/11/12 anniversary*
1. Chapter 1

Death could be beautiful.

It was difficult to say, let alone accept, but as an immortal, a nation in the form of a man, America knew it. He was built on death, as all nations are.

His independence was shrouded in death, not only of enemy soldiers, but his own, the deaths of blue-coated militiamen and civilians caught in the thick of things. His unity was sealed in blood, after he was almost torn apart by conflicting ideals and a moderately unsympathetic government. His power _was _death, or the power to cause millions of them in the blink of an eye, displayed only twice almost seventy years ago. So, to America, death was beautiful.

He felt dirty thinking so on such sacred ground.

The waterfalls were quite a sight to behold; he would have to track down the architects and commend them. He was tempted to throw in a coin and make a wish but he was unsure as to whether or not that would be considered disrespectful, so he didn't. The name fit nicely, _Reflecting Absence, _as that was exactly what they made him to. Reflect on absence.

Eleven years ago, these square holes in the ground, the ones which water was now swallowed into like light into a black hole, were tall, glorious towers with people bustling around and inside. People certainly hated them then, especially those who worked there. He hated the White House for what he suspected was the same reason that those who hated the towers then did – it was where he went to work every day, his own little voluntary prison where he locked himself every day.

Ten years ago, these square holes were full of burning debris. Steel, glass, concrete, bodies…and the occasional splash of jet fuel. The air was thick with smoke and tar and asbestos and it was impossible to breath. The people were screaming and running about frantically, looking for phones to call their worried families. Everyone was confused and upset and devastated; new mothers held their sons in their arms and old fathers let their daughters cry into their shoulders. Firemen and the NYPD scoured the wreckage, looking for survivors wondering _'how could God let this happen?' _and _'who could hate us so much?'_, not wondering out loud though, because they knew that everyone else was thinking the exact same thing.

_The people from a year before – who had hated the Towers as their workplace and prison – were ether dead or dying. _

Because ten years ago, two passenger jets were flown into the twin towers of the World Trade Center, one passenger jet was flown into the Pentagon, and one more jet, supposedly heading for the White House, was almost reclaimed by the passengers and crashed into a field in Pennsylvania.

America laughed mirthlessly. He wondered if those on Flight 93 knew when they boarded that they were going to die heroes. Certainly not; when he had entered WWII he had not known that he was going to be branded a superpower and a monster.

Death was indeed beautiful, not because it ended something so fragile and weak but because it started something impossibly strong. Unity. Death brings people together. A lot of deaths bring a lot of people together. 3,000 deaths brought a country together, if only for a little while.

He missed the feeling of unity. It was long gone and he was divided again by his raging politicians, his incompetent legislature and executive, and each and every one of his citizens who refused to swallow their pride and get something done – Liberal and Conservative alike. But for a while, there was unity, and that was the beauty of death.

"The loss of life here, on this very day ten years ago," he said to nobody in particular. A few of his fellow mourners turned to look at him but he couldn't be sure if they were listening or not. "– was a tragedy we, as Americans, will not soon forget, even though sometimes it seems like we already have. The whole world mourned with us on September 11, 2001, but it seems now that we all mourn alone."

He took a deep breath and ran his fingers over the black stone. The names of his dead children were forever carved there as they were carved on war memorials and other such tributes and it almost brought tears to his eyes to imagine how their lives would all be today had they not been killed in an act of terror never before seen in the United States.

He would come back again tomorrow, to stare into the belly of the pit where The North Tower used to stand, but for now he needed to return to his apartment over the city. It was Sunday, and he had invited a few friends over to watch the game. He had considered inviting them to the memorial with him but had decided against it. Wasn't a sporting event just the perfect was to steal emotional support without looking weak? It was.

As he turned to leave, he heard the roar of a jet and a sickening boom. He knew that if he turned around he would see the South Tower in flames where the waterfall was today, he would hear the screams and see the people jump to their deaths. He kept walking, a single droplet of water dripping down his chin and making a home on his jacket. It wasn't raining.

_Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light  
>What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?<br>Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,  
>O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?<br>And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,  
>Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.<br>Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave  
>O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?<em>

_And where is that band who so vauntingly swore  
>That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,<br>A home and a country should leave us no more!  
>Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.<br>No refuge could save the hireling and slave  
>From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:<br>And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave  
>O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thank you for reading this, because if you have you are thinking of America the Beautiful in her darkest hour. Only twice in our history (to my knowledge) was the United States attacked on our own soil without prior antagonism, the other being Pearl Harbor.

On September 11, 2001, the world was changed. My world was changed. Because for the first time, we would have to fight an enemy we could not discern from the ordinary person. Because for the first time I was afraid for my life. (Imagine – a small child, afraid for her life? I was only in Elementary School, and I was afraid for my life as all New Yorkers were.) The only thing that can put my heart at ease is the knowledge that Osama bin Laden is dead now.

The two verses of the Star Spangled Banner are my favorites, the first and the third. The first is the U.S. National Anthem, and I find the third to be rather fitting for the American spirit.

I also apologize if I have inadvertently offended anyone as that was not my intention; I actually just finished reading a book about the effects of death and war on the national psyche and just sort of integrated some of the concepts here.

I apologize for any grammatical and spelling mistakes; I had a much longer, minute-by-minute 9/11 tribute I was working on but didn't have time to finish, so I put this together real quick like for you and my conscience. Feel free to point anything out that's disgustingly embarrassing.

Thank you for reading, please review, and God Bless the U.S.A.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: I actually didn't plan on writing another one of these. Alas, the vigil we had in the courtyard at lunch today inspired me to write this little drabble. Not nearly as good as last year's, but se la vie. It's focused more on Alfred and Arthur than the occasion. I apologize in advance if it's nonsensical and for any stupid errors; if I read it over I probably won't post it. So, enjoy, and God Bless America.

**9/11/2012**

It was very unlike Alfred to be so quiet. He had always been quite boisterous, even as a child, and nobody knew that better than Arthur. He had practically raised the boy. And now, in their older years, he was an ally, confidante, and friend. As an ally, confidante, and friend, he had every right to be concerned.

Arthur knew what day it was. He didn't need to look at the calendar to know; it was so deeply ingrained in his former colony's heart that he could feel it. He would be surprised if some of the others – Francis, Ludwig, Kiku, Ivan – didn't feel it too. It had been that powerful an occurrence.

The sympathies were out there, more strongly at first than now. Flowers, memorials, prayers, letters, vigils; it was a beautiful time for the world. For the first time in all of Arthur's existence, the world mourned together, and that was certainly a feat. But now, after so long, every one else had mostly moved on. He didn't blame them, that was just the way things were. Time marches relentlessly forward.

But a little part of Alfred died that day. The last young, soft, innocent part of him. The boy was allowed to mourn it. Arthur certainly did.

He waited for the boy to get back from the memorial. It was a beautiful thing, the memorial – a testament to Alfred's resilience, if nothing else.

Arthur knew well about resilience, he had been around a lot longer than the boy, and he knew that sometimes resilience was about being weak. Alfred was never allowed to be weak. He was America. He was big, brave, strong. He had to prove himself over and over again and still he didn't get the respect he so desired. As a result, his guard was always up, his face always cracked by a smile, his eyes always bright.

Eventually he would overload. It happened all the time, even to the humans. And then where would he be? A dependent child, all over again. Arthur, being the good big brother he was, couldn't allow that to happen.

He waited patiently in front of Alfred's apartment in the city. Wordlessly, he took the man by the arm and led him back down the elevator, on to the street, down the block. They stopped for pretzels – street pretzels were not nearly as good as street hot dogs or street pizza, but the American was still quite fond of them – but continued on their way.

They eventually came to a small pub (a British pub). Technically, Alfred was underage. His ID, as fake as it was, called him eighteen. But this tiny pub didn't seem to care. Arthur ordered two pints. He didn't touch his, though; he knew that he would get drunk far faster than the behemoth before him. Alfred took his first sip before long. Then his second. Third. It was only a few minutes before the pint was gone, and Arthur ordered another.

It too disappeared without a word.

Half way through his third pint Alfred choked, but not on his alcohol. The mug slipped from the young man's hands and smashed against the floor. A soft head pressed itself against Arthur's chest, soft sobs wracking to form of the young nation, much too young to carry such a burden. Arthur ran his fingers through honey-blond hair, humming softly an anthem he had only played once.

In the morning Alfred would have to be America again. Big, strong America. But for now he could just be Arthur's little brother and they could mourn the hole in his chest together.


End file.
